


Recovery

by SoulOfStars



Series: Linked [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Candles, Chamomile, Clovers, Death Eaters, Dissociation, Faking a Death, Flowers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Horcruxes, Hot Chocolate, Is Linen better than Vanilla?, Language of Flowers, Lemon Balm, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Room of Requirement, Roses, Therapy, Voldemort kills all his nastiest Death Eaters, Walmart, but not, daisies, harry does, hyacinth - Freeform, lasagna, lavender - Freeform, not as much as before, yellow roses, you ever just scream into the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 18:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfStars/pseuds/SoulOfStars
Summary: The second part of Linked.Voldemort learns toliveHeed the tags.





	Recovery

Voldemort woke up. He was disoriented and confused and had no idea how he was still alive. Nagini, wrapped around him, hissed sleepily and told him to go back to bed. He casted a tempus first, then summoned the most recent Daily Prophet, eyes widening in shock when he read the date. It was a week before Christmas Day, meaning that everything after his last shared dream with Potter in the Chamber of Secrets hadn’t happened. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and laid back against his pillow. A second chance, then. He closed his eyes, catching a glimpse of Avada Kedavra green eyes right before he fell asleep.

\-----

In Hogwarts, Harry Potter opened his eyes and smiled.

\-----

Voldemort woke up in a cold sweat, recalling only bits of his nightmare before it slipped away from him. Black fingers, blood, and a dark specter who he was sure was his mother, crying. Nagini raised herself up on his lap and complained that she was hungry, and Voldemort laughed shakily and conjured a rabbit for her to eat. He was being given a second chance, he reminded himself. He threw back the covers and got dressed, his hands shaking.

That day, every portrait that he passed seemed to have green eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or to cry. When evening came, he called a meeting with all of his Death Eaters. He called them forwards one by one, going through their minds and finding those who delighted in hurting and torturing and killing the innocent and, one by one, they fell to the killing curse. Only those of Hogwarts age, Severus Snape, and Peter Pettigrew were left. He dismissed them and began the work of digging graves for the dead and levitating their bodies to the makeshift cemetery. 

He still felt like he was being watched.

\-----

Harry watched Malfoy walk through the halls like a ghost, eyes red-rimmed like he’d been crying. He shook his head, said a few words to Snape, then went over to pat the blond on the back. He was a still a prat, but he was also a kid who’d just lost his dad. He was only a little surprised when Malfoy accepted the comfort. He was kind of angry that Voldemort had killed so many people in front of kids, but it was a done deal now and, at the very least, the world was free of scum like Bellatrix Lestrange. He sent warmth and thoughts of sunshine and green growing things over the link and felt Voldemort relax a little. He sighed.

\-----

Voldemort thought he was being punished. He’d done everything _right!_ He’d gotten rid of the bad ones, but not the good ones, yet he still woke up covered in sweat that sometimes felt like blood, his throat burning. Nagini helped by laying on him, her familiar weight grounding him, but sometimes it wasn’t enough and sometimes he struggled to breathe because— _oh god, he was suffocating; he was going to die_ —and then he cried and cried until he fell asleep again, Nagini hissing soothing words at him, the link open and thrumming with reassurance. And when he fell asleep, he dreamed.

He was in Hogwarts again, the halls dark and quiet and the stars shining in through every window. He sighed and walked out into the night air, heading for the lake. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle the darkness tonight. Outside, insects chirped and buzzed while the odd toad croaked. The stars seemed closer and brighter, and the moon turned everything under its light silver. 

“Hogwarts again?” He turned to face the boy that had been haunting his nightmares and his waking moments, squeezing his eyes shut when he saw the green and remembered—he pushed it as far back into his mind as it would go and swallowed a whimper. 

“Potter—Harry, please,” he whispered. “Why are you—?” Harry sighed and approached him, cradling his head and soothing Voldemort with his touch. 

“It’s not me anymore,” he said, and Voldemort froze. Harry sat down next to him and looked out onto the gentle waters of the lake. “It was me at first, but I haven’t actually sent you anything since after the Chamber and your—soul-pieces.” They sat like that for a while, Harry watching the stars glitter on the surface of the lake and Voldemort processing what he’d told him. 

“How do I make it stop?” He asked eventually, sounding helpless and lost. Harry cocked his head, closed his eyes, and hummed a low note that seemed to reverberate throughout the dream space. He shook his head, then opened his eyes again. 

“Grounding,” he said, and pointed to his fingers. “When reality feels like it’s sliding away from you or you can feel your mind try to disappear and lock itself away, count downwards from five. Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.” Voldemort nodded, staring at his hands. “Meditation, maybe. And consider finding a therapist.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it isn’t worth much, but I’m sorry. I had to find a way to make you understand; I just didn’t expect…” Voldemort laughed without any feeling. 

“You talk like you have experience in this, Har—Potter,” he said, avoiding the apology altogether and stumbling over the boy’s name. He’d already called him “Harry” once; there was no need to do it again. 

“Yes, well, after I killed a man with my bare hands as an eleven year old, Madam Pomfrey recommended me to one of her colleagues behind Dumbledore’s back. If she hadn’t, I think I would have tested the limits of the prophecy.” Voldemort winced. 

“I’m sorry I took your family from you.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the susurrus of the waves, but Harry heard him. He sighed, then stood up. 

“Thank you,” he said, and Voldemort woke up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over, and tucked Nagini against his chest, then fell back asleep.

\-----

The Room of Requirement had always been an interesting place for Harry. It could be any room he wanted it to be, and finding existing rooms was a fun challenge for him. He found the room of lost things, peeked into every common room, and found, oddly enough, someone’s personal library. Some guy named Herpo the Foul? Harry doubted that was his actual name, and was extremely wary of going near the shelves, given that, as soon as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, it felt like the magic was applying pressure to him, coating him like an oil spill and squeezing. He snapped up his Occlumency barriers and re-opened the door, backing out quickly. _No thanks._

Now he made his own rooms. He had a training room to practice new spells, with mats covering the floor and cushioning charms applied to almost every surface, as well as a few dummies. He had his own little library full of books that he’d found or taken from the Restricted Section. He also had a place to store all of Voldemort’s horcruxes. The dream he’d sent Voldemort could very well become a reality, seeing as he had every horcrux that hadn’t already been destroyed, barring Nagini, but he kept the soul-pieces intact partially out of curiosity and partially because just up and killing the man when he’d given him a second chance seemed kind of rude. 

He sat down across from the circle of horcruxes, pondering about their fates. Should he just destroy them? The locket rattled a little, as if protesting, and he smiled. Maybe he should give them to Voldemort. He shrugged and stood, levitating the horcruxes into a velvet-lined box meant to conceal their nature and suppress their magic. It was a second chance, after all.

\-----

When Voldemort received the package from a gorgeous snowy owl, he frowned. He hadn’t ordered anything, nor had he asked any of his remaining followers for reports, let alone gifts. It was a well-carved box, adorned with snakes that had jewels for eyes and the likeness of a wing down one side. The owl clucked at him, and he fed it, then berated Nagini as she sized the owl up and declared that it would be a fine meal. He opened the box and froze.

His horcruxes sang to him and called out to the ruined shrivel of soul he had left, but all he could see was the Hogwarts courtyard and that green light. Nagini curled around his legs, concerned, but it didn’t help because—he felt like he was watching himself from afar; he felt his mind trying to withdraw. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not and desperately tried to remember what Harr—Potter had said to do when he started drifting. Five—five things? His eyes wouldn’t focus. He tugged the link and felt acknowledgement, then closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.

\-----

Harry felt like a massive idiot. He felt like hitting himself, and he would’ve if it’d have done any good. He should have realized what seeing his horcruxes would have done to Voldemort. He patted the table a few times, unwilling to let his anger out on the furniture around him when neither the table nor the chairs of the common room had done anything to him, then he gave up and left, ascending a few hundred steps to the astronomy tower, and screamed into the night. When he’d calmed down, he sought out the link and took control away from Voldemort, picking up the box of horcruxes and hiding it in one of the dusty cabinets in the kitchen. He settled the man back into his bed, under the covers with Nagini curled up on his chest, and gave Voldemort’s senses back to him. A few minutes later, he received the mental equivalent of a question mark and sent a flood of warmth and a quiet apology down the link.

Harry trudged back down to the common room, then up to his dorm. He was just about to fall asleep when he thought of something, reached out, and hugged Voldemort through the link. Then, he pulled back, erected his Occlumency barriers, and he fell asleep.

\-----

Voldemort finally had enough time on his hands to search for a therapist—trained in helping patients cope with trauma, he recalls Pott—Har— _argh!_ —he recalls _Harry_ telling him after a particularly bad day. It took a while to find one nearby with the skillset he wanted, and even then, it took him more than a week to find the courage to call the office. He was nervous when he booked an appointment and even more so when he actually arrived at the office, but the first session was relatively painless. When he left after scheduling another appointment, he felt an emotion not his own pass through the link. It was… pride. Harry was proud of him? When Voldemort returned home, he had a small smile on his face.

That night, he dreamed. He found himself on an island in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by stars. The water here glowed lightly, and he was entranced. There was no moon tonight, leaving the stars to shine brightly down at him like glitter dust on a black gown. He heard a quick intake of breath and turned around. There was Harry, standing in a sea of stars, staring at him with bright green eyes that were as reflective as the water around them. He swallowed and looked down, breaking eye contact. When he blinked, he saw a bright green flash of light and took a deep breath. Five things he could see. Harry, the ocean, the stars, his hands, and the sand. Four things he could touch. His skin, his robes, the water, and the… the sand. He took another deep breath. Three things he could hear. The waves, the wind, and his own heartbeat crashing through his ears. Two things he could smell. Salt and rain. One thing he could taste. For some reason, he tasted mint and something… spicy. Voldemort took another deep breath and relaxed. He could do this. 

While he’d been grounding himself, Harry had sat down on the sand. When he looked up, Harry patted the spot next to him. He sat down, and they looked out onto the starry sea together until they woke up.

\-----

Another week passed. Voldemort had been spending his nights either dreaming with Harry or trapped in his own nightmares of blood and empty eyes. Sometimes he woke up screaming, sometimes he woke up covered in sweat, and sometimes he didn’t wake until morning, exhausted. Harry comforted him when he could, but when Voldemort was too far gone to even think of the link, Nagini curled around him and hissed nonsensically in his ear as he cried.

His therapist said that any progress was good progress, even if it was slow-going, and Harry agreed with her when he’d told him. Both of them were proud of him for being able to ground himself when he could, and he didn’t know what to do with himself when they both expressed that. His therapist had also mentioned that perhaps he could start to add things into his life to help him cope. He now had a box of instant hot chocolate packets—the ones that he could just pour hot water into and then hold to feel the warmth on his hands and smell the sugary sweetness. He also had a few scented candles that he’d lit earlier that day, and now the entirety of his home smelled like—he checked the label—Freshly Cut Rose. Mmmm. The best part was that even Nagini liked the scent.

\-----

It was Valentine’s Day. Voldemort refused to go outside that day, too afraid that the red might force him to remember something, but he still dreamed of blood that night and when he woke up, he wasn’t sure where he was, and he could hear screaming but he didn’t know where it was coming from, and when he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw himself instead of Dream-Harry, lying on the ground with his head at the wrong angle, surrounded by crimson. He wasn’t—He couldn’t—He heard the sound of a match striking a matchbox and curled in on himself, covering his ears with shaking hands. Fire was—not good right now. He froze, however, when the scent of roses reached him. Voldemort opened his eyes and uncurled. When he looked towards where the candles were; none of them were lit. His brow furrowed and he sought out the link.

 _Harry?_ He cleared his throat, wincing at the soreness and the realization that he’d been the one screaming. The smell of roses grew stronger, then faded and was replaced by chamomile, then lavender. _Thank you._

 _Go back to sleep,_ he heard from the other side of the link. He smiled tiredly, then let Nagini settle herself back on his legs, her weight familiar and comforting. He fell asleep.

\-----

“I’m considering faking my own death,” Voldemort said a few months later, walking through a Dream-MalWart with Harry by his side. Harry’s head whipped around and he stared at Voldemort. His mouth opened and closed a few times and Voldemort likened him to a fish.

“What?”

“I have no more plans for the Wizarding World because I can’t stand the colour of the proper dress robes of the Wizengamot and I obviously can’t handle killing. So, I’ve decided to move to the muggle world. It’s not like I’m known there.” Voldemort cocked his head, wondering whether Linen was a better scent than Vanilla and lamented being unable to simply smell it in the dream. Harry was still staring at him, and Voldemort rolled his eyes and gestured for him to speak. 

“What do you mean you’re going to fake your own death?” 

“I said that I’m _considering_ faking my own death. There's a difference.” Harry shook his head. 

“No, I just meant—how would you do it?”

“Well, the way that I want to do it involves a golem. It would be like my resurrection in that I give it some of my blood and then keep its heart pumping and make sure that it’s breathing by giving it my magic, and then I drop it off somewhere conspicuous and cut off my magic. It would die instantly and remain in whatever state it dies in.” 

“Okay. Do you have any muggle papers? What about identification?” Voldemort nodded. 

“I have contacts. The only thing I’m struggling with is the name. It can’t point directly back to me, but I do want it to be of some significance.” Harry cocked his head and hummed a note that made the dream vibrate around the edges. Voldemort had learned that Harry did this whenever he was pondering something especially difficult and didn’t notice the dream dissolve a little every time he did it. 

“Try Amarantos. It’s Greek, and it means ‘unfading’ or ‘immortal’.” 

“Nice.” 

“Right? Anyways,” Harry brushed some stray hair out of his eyes and huffed when it fell back into place. “Do you plan on applying a glamour every day for the rest of your life?” Voldemort hummed, trying to mimic Harry and being delighted when the dream-space shook a little around the edges.

“No. There are rituals for that.” 

“Coolio. If you have any trouble moving, I can help.” Voldemort shrugged, picking up and studying a few of the candles that had the most pleasant colours. 

“I’ll keep you updated.”

\-----

Voldemort, now Amarantos, looked for a flat in the muggle world and was preparing to sell the manor. It was now summer vacation, so Harry came with him to “help”, even though his brand of “help” consisted of him making comments about whether or not the house was soundproof and things like “Ooh, popcorn ceiling. That’s gonna mold.” Vol—Amarantos, he reminded himself, rolled his eyes each time, but let himself smile occasionally.

Experiencing new things was a favourite pastime of his, so heading into this new, exciting muggle world was interesting. It had changed a lot from his childhood and evolved into a place with shiny digital screens and flashy gadgets wherever you looked. Amarantos found it delightful. Harry helped him find a Gringotts-partnered bank that specialised in muggle money, where he opened a bank account. Shortly after that, he bought himself one of those tiny smartphones and played with it until Nagini complained about the light, at which point he turned it off and plugged a charger into it, only fumbling a few times. 

Eventually, Amarantos found a flat near a florist’s shop that was both soundproof (Harry helped him check by casting a sonorus on himself and yelling “Dick!” inside while he was outside. The only reason he knew what the little shit had said was because they’d accidentally left one of the windows open) and had brightly coloured walls. This way, there was no chance of anyone on the street hearing him when he woke up from nightmares and he’d be able to figure out where he was more easily with bright colours than with pasty white walls. Also, Nagini liked how it smelled like flowers.

Packing was the hard part. It took about two days to make sure that everything he owned was in expanded boxes and under a featherlight charm. At the end of the first day, Amarantos pretended he didn’t see Harry sneak a cardboard box that rattled suspiciously into an expanded pouch and took deep breaths when the memories threatened to resurface. When the packing was finally done, Amarantos chucked all of the boxes into one large expanded box, picked up the box in one hand with Nagini held under his arm, and held out a portkey for Harry to grasp. A few seconds later, they were in the flat. Amarantos sighed. Time to unpack.

\-----

Amarantos woke up near midnight, groggy and confused. Nagini was draped over him, so at least that hadn’t changed, but the walls of his room seemed to be purple. The scent of lilacs caught his attention and he relaxed. Right. He’d moved into the muggle world. He searched for whatever had woken him and found nothing in the immediate vicinity. He frowned, his brow furrowing, and sought out the link in his mind. Immediately, he was hit with a wave of panic so strong he struggled to separate himself from it. He closed his eyes and followed the link into Harry’s mind, fighting his way through wave after wave of fear and panic.

When he opened his eyes, he was in Harry’s nightmare. Everyone he’d ever killed was standing in a circle around the boy, staring at him with empty eyes and yelling at him, calling him every foul name under the sun. Harry was simply sitting in the center of the circle, head bowed, a motionless figure. Were it not for the panic and fear Amarantos could still feel, he’d have believed the still form unmoved by the dead’s angry yelling. He stepped forward and Harry looked up at him, his eyes shining as he tried not to cry. Suddenly, the primary emotion Amarantos felt wash over him was relief, and he watched as, one by one, the dead vanished from sight. He took another step, then another, and found himself by Harry’s side, helping him up, then hugging him to within an inch of his life. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Harry shook his head. 

“What’s done is done.” Amarantos opened his mouth to protest, but closed it when Harry brought them to the island of stars. He sighed, recognizing that Harry didn’t want to talk about this anymore, and laid down on the sand.

\-----

Amarantos did the ritual to give him a more human appearance—he had a nose again, and also some ridiculously curly hair that he hated, but that Harry loved. He never straightened it. About a month after getting his flat, he applied for a job at the nearby florist’s shop. He couldn’t live off of his inheritance and his Death Eaters’ sizeable donations forever (he could, but that was boring), and Nagini apparently really liked the smell of flowers, so getting this job would probably make her happy.

He told his therapist about the interview and his new flat at his next appointment, taking care to glamour himself the same way he had before the ritual. She was delighted, of course, and gave him at least three recommendations on books about flower meanings before he left. The books were actually really interesting, and when he received a call from the florist’s shop about a job offer a few days later, he was so excited that he could hardly hold it in. 

_Harry! I got a job!_ Amarantos cheered across the link. There was a small pause.

_Congratulations! At the flower shop, right?_

_Yes!_

_Awesome! How do you want to celebrate?_ Amarantos patted Nagini thoughtfully, smiling when she hissed something about flowers. 

_I was thinking—something with flowers?_

_That sounds wonderful but, honestly, I don’t know of that many types of flowers._

_That’s fine. See you tonight?_

_Yup! See you then._ Amarantos closed the link, danced around his kitchen like a madman, and tried to sweep Nagini into the air, stepping back quickly when she hissed threats at him. He had a job! 

That night, he found himself laying in a field of sweet-smelling wildflowers, the sun bright overhead and a gentle breeze sweeping through the field. He looked around, eyes catching on bunches of daisies and yellow roses, lemon balm, and the odd clover patch. _Cheerfulness and innocence_ , he recalled, standing and tracing the petals of a daisy. _Friendship, sympathy_. Then, he smiled. White clovers. _Happiness, but also revenge for a broken promise_. Message received. 

When Harry finally appeared from wherever he’d been, they spent the dream talking as he explained what he knew about flowers and their meanings and Harry talked about Hogwarts. Suddenly, he paused. 

“Amarantos, what’s a blood quill?” Amarantos froze, red flashing before his eyes until he processed the question. 

“Why—” he cleared his throat, his mouth dry. “Why do you ask?” 

“The DADA teacher makes us use them in detention.” For the first time in a long time, Harry felt his scar begin to burn as Amarantos was consumed by a fiery rage. 

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Amarantos choked out. They both woke up.

\-----

_Delores Umbridge disappears from Hogwarts under mysterious circumstances!_ Harry read the headline and rolled his eyes.

\-----

About a week passed in a whirl of flowers, dreams, and customers who took “the customer knows best” to heart and tried to make his life a living hell. Amarantos learned the value of patience and self control. Also of note was that the golem in his attic was growing at a quick but steady rate, and Voldemort’s death in the Wizarding World should be ready in the next month. Fortunately, Hogwarts was letting out the week before that, so his Death Eaters and their children wouldn’t be openly ridiculed or subject to bullying when the news broke.

On this particular evening, he was in the kitchen looking for recipes on his (tiny!) smartphone, bookmarking one for lasagna when he saw that he had all the ingredients. 

_Lasagna is just spaghetti cake_ , Harry told him over the link, and he rolled his eyes. 

_Go to class_ , he replied, tidily ignoring the fact that it was the weekend. He took out a baking pan and started preparing his ingredients, only remembering to preheat the oven when he was halfway through laying pasta sheets on top of sauce and cheese. He set it to 190 °C, checking inside the oven to make sure that there wasn’t anything inside, despite literally never having used it before, and he froze. Inside the oven, sitting innocently on the middle rack, were his horcruxes. Amarantos scrambled backwards, his back against the cabinets, his eyes locked onto the priceless artifacts that held pieces of his soul. Harry’s voice echoed in his thoughts. _Count backwards from five…_

Five things. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing, and all he saw was green light and— _shrivelled husks of his horcruxes, all of them destroyed_ —and he saw blackened fingers and rotted eyes and— _count backwards from five_. He squeezed his eyes shut, barely feeling the comforting weight of Nagini as she wrapped herself around him. She hissed soothing words at him, but he couldn’t hear her, could only hear— _there are things worse than death_. He shuddered, curling in on himself, trapped in his memories, while steady hands pulled him upright and arms wrapped around him and someone told him to breathe. 

“Just like I’m doing. In, out. In, out,” Harry whispered in his ear. Amarantos collapsed against him, breathing shakily as he was told to, tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked up at Harry, flinching when he saw the green, and he closed his eyes again. 

“Please take them away,” he whispered, voice small and desperate. 

“Okay.” 

An hour later, Amarantos found himself on the couch, bundled in blankets with a plate of lasagna on his lap as the scent of rose permeated the house. He sighed, leaned against Harry, and he fell asleep.

\-----

Any progress is good progress. Amarantos wakes up to nightmares less often, and they’re less intense as time goes on, but that doesn’t mean that they disappear entirely. He’s learning to live like he never had the chance to before, just like Harry, and, in a month, the Wizarding World will be free.

Seeing Dumbledore at a florist’s shop that summer was unexpected and unwelcome, but the purple hyacinth he bought was sure to put a smile on Harry’s face when he told him. _Forgiveness._


End file.
